All The Stars Above
by Wanderer of Realms
Summary: Thranduil attempts to recover from the death of his father, Oropher, while dealing with the pressure and responsibilities of being the Elvenking. Thranduil is overwhelmed, and he teeters on the brink of falling apart when someone pulls him up on his feet. (Rated T just in case)
1. Chapter 1

Before I start, I must thank TolkienScribe for being such a great supporter in the writing and editing of this fic. The character names Fion and Thorontur is TolkienScribe's, but the characters themselves are different.

This is story is also beta-ed by TolkienScribe. Go ahead and check out TolkienScribe's writing; they're all canonical and superb. I highly recommend them.

Also, everything except for the following characters are Professor Tolkien's (The names Thorontur and Fion are TolkienScribe's as mentioned above):

Irien, all council members, Serindir, Avorsel, and Linneth.

Alright. Without further ado, let us begin.

Thranduil sat beside the body of his father, Oropher. He took his father's hand, tried to wake him.

"Adar?" he whispered. "Adar?" Thranduil tucked a golden lock behind his father's ear, a strangely childish gesture. "Will you wake, Adar?" The tears had not come. Thranduil wondered why, somewhere at the back of his mind. His entire body went numb, the minutes galloping past in hours, the hours crawling along like the infirm it was. The pain was deadened. It would come soon. But now, he was shut down and cold. Cold beyond belief, slowly gripping him like a vice.

He had been there. When his father fell. When Oropher's light, his fire, was snuffed out in an instant, before the doors of Barad-Dur. The orcs, the yellow-eyed atrocities, had swarmed like a group of flies on a carcass. Thranduil had known nothing in that instant but for his orders: kill the orcs. And he did, with frightening competence. But not enough. Never enough. That minute, that second he saw his father fall, that heart-stopping moment. Thranduil let loose a strangled yell, tried, tried to cut through the swarms, the walls of orcs that divided him and his father. But, again, it was never enough.

When he had finally reached his father, what seemed like hours but was probably less than a minute, the pools of blood were at a point of no return. Thranduil ran to his father's side.

Oropher smiled a sad smile. "Thranduil," he whispered, coughing. Coughing up blood. All that blood. There was so much of it, watering the dust on the ground, caking his armor. "Thranduil." There was no time to say anything. Oropher took a shuddering breath, struggling for every moment. The piercing blue eyes of father and son met. "Don't mourn me," Oropher breathed, barely making a sound. But Thranduil heard. Oh, he heard.

He should have been happy. Happy that Sauron was decimated, that his forces were beaten back, that the Black Usurper would never do evil again. So why was there a blank hole, a dread, a freezing pit in his heart? His father. Thranduil closed his eyes, letting the chills crawl down his spine. His father had told him, told him not to mourn. He was not going to wither and die, not curl up and give up the sky. He had a promise to uphold. But Thranduil could feel the walls crumbling and tumbling down already. How was he to govern his people? What kind of leader was he, to still be lamenting when he should be squaring his shoulders and putting it behind him?

He was broken out of his reverie at the sound of the tent flap opening. He caught a hint of the smell of metallic blood and smoke before the flap closed. At the doorway was Elrond.

"Mae govannen," Elrond said, extending his arm to Thranduil in the gesture of greeting.

"Mae govannen," Thranduil replied, taken aback at how weak his voice sounded.

"I am…." Elrond trailed off, "sorry about your father." He knew exactly how pathetic he sounded.

Thranduil did not have the strength to reply.

"He was a good king, your father," Elrond offered, almost desperate for something to say.

"He was," Thranduil said, his voice foreign to him.

There was a deafening silence. Every second shamed Elrond, who knew not how to comfort the young king.

In the end, he decided to tell the truth. "I never knew my father well," Elrond started sheepishly. "He sailed for the Valar when I was very young."

"Eärendil," Thranduil murmured, recognizing Elrond's lineage.

"Yes. Maglor raised me. He wasn't much of a father; more like a guardian." Elrond continued. He paused. "Come, Thranduil. Walk with me."

With a raised eyebrow, Thranduil stood slowly. His muscles and joints creaked in protest, a show of exactly the length of time Thranduil had sat by his father's body. Elrond led the way out of the tent, and Thranduil followed, casting a look at Oropher, still lying peacefully. He could have been sleeping. But Thranduil knew better.

Thranduil breathed the open air for the first time in what seemed like ages. He was surprised to find it was night time, the stars out, shining in their white brilliance. All around the camp, Elves and Men mingled, laughing and talking by their campfires, no longer afraid of the menace of the East. It was gone.

Elrond pointed up at the sky at the brightest star in the sky. "That's my father," he said, smiling. He turned to Thranduil. "Every time I look up there, I see him. Yet I don't know how he would say my name, how he would smile. I don't know what stories he would have told me as a child, nor what he would tell me right now." Elrond looked Thranduil right in the eye. "But you know how he would say your name, how he would embrace you after coming home. And that is worth more than anything, that chance to be with your father. Remember these memories well. Don't let them go, just because of a simple thing like death."

Thranduil looked up at the mighty Elf lord, who suddenly seemed so small and vulnerable. He tried to think of all the times he and his father went to the lake, or when he taught him to use his sword. But the image of Oropher, lying dead on the battlefield always came back to haunt Thranduil. He couldn't see how this would help.

Elrond cast a look at the son of Oropher. He was young, far too young for all of this. He sighed inwardly. He was never particularly good at comforting others. "Don't forget," he said one last time, before bowing and taking his leave into the depths of the night.

Thranduil stayed there, watching the Peredhil disappear. Oropher had been everything to him, the one he turned to for advice and council, the one whose shoulder he would lean on. And it was all gone. In an instant, it was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

They had returned to the Woodland Realm soon after. Thranduil could not bear to see the bier of his father being carried back to his kingdom. He was lying so still, so quietly, Thranduil could no longer bear it. So he had ridden in the back, attempting to make conversation with the rest of the soldiers. Needless to say, it was fruitless.

On return, Thranduil ordered soldiers return to their families. Nearly two thirds of the Woodland Army had been decimated by those monstrous, deformed yrch. It would be soon time to recruit more soldiers from the academy. Some soldiers would have to be promoted, the dead and live sorted out, letters sent out to mourning families. It made Thranduil's head hurt just thinking of it.

Soon enough, he reached the gates of Mirkwood palace. There were Elves by the main road, watching as their army rode past. Word had reached their ears already of the news of their King's death. They craned their necks, hoping to catch a glimpse of their former Prince, now King. So Thranduil had held his head high and proud, knowing he owed it to his father to be strong, at least for a few minutes.

As soon as they reached the last set of gates, Thranduil dismounted his magnifice elk, his stable boy leading it into the stables. He breathed the crisp air, clearing his mind. It was always where he had most felt at home, among the trees and forests of Mirkwood. He had spent hours in these trees, jumping from branch to branch. The corners of Thranduil's mouth curled up, smiling at the memories of many broken arms and limbs as a result of his childhood tomfoolery in the forest.

His father had always been there to help him up and carry him to the healer's wing, where Mireth would patch up his leg while he whimpered. This time, there was no Oropher to turn to, no father to help him up when he fell. The grief had become a familiar ache in his chest, one he knew all too well. Thranduil's face turned stony, and he turned towards the narrow bridge that led to the castle doors.

As he walked through the halls, Thranduil was shocked by the torrent of memories that doused him as a sudden rain on a cold winter's night. This is where he had spent countless hours racing through the halls, laughing as a child, or wrestling with his friends. His father had doubtlessly yelled at him to sheathe his sword while running in the crowded halls, lest he unwittingly decapitate a lieutenant.

Fighting to keep a straight, kingly posture, he had returned to his quarters, preparing for a council meeting the next day. In truth, Thranduil had no wish to think of his kingly duties; things his father had done for thousands of years. He was not ready to clean out his father's rooms, not to mention moving in to them. At any rate, he had been comfortable in his own quarters.

But even his own rooms offered no solace. From the cloaks in the wardrobe to the books in the shelf, Oropher was in every one of them. He had chosen the royal colors, most of which dominated Thranduil's attire. Oropher had picked out the ridiculously difficult Quenya texts for his son to read. But worst of all was the small painting of Oropher on Thranduil's oak desk. It depicted a proud, noble king with long golden tresses, exactly the shade of his son's. He held his sword high, his brilliant blue eyes fixated upon Thranduil.

He was so lifelike, so real. Thranduil reached out with shaky fingers to touch the cold, canvas surface of the painting, half expecting to touch living flesh. "What am I to do now?" he whispered. "I know not." He wanted his father to answer, to open his mouth and give him advice, tell him what to do. Thranduil didn't want to make his own decisions, and dictate the fate of his kingdom. There were thousands of Elves whose lives he was responsible for.

Of course, the painting didn't respond. So Thranduil set it down gently, grabbed a random stack of parchment and a quill from his desk, and swept out of the room to the council chamber.

The new Elvenking sat in his father's seat in front of a dark, mahogany table with generals, captains and advisors arrayed around. They all wore the signs of battle, injuries all around: a broken arm here, a bandage there. Thorontur, the General of the Third Corps, sat on his right. Another thing Oropher had left behind was the First Corps. He was their general, they were his troops.

They were all looking at him expectantly. Thranduil didn't know what to say, especially after getting distracted. He gathered his thoughts, took a deep breath, and began.

"Generals and captains, we have work to do," he said. He might as well be blunt about it. No sense buttering over the truth. "After my father's death," he paused. "Mayhem ensued. We need to recruit new members, train them and get them ready for war."

The members of the group exchanged almost irritated glances, not bothering to mask them. One captain leaned forward.

"With all due respect, my lord," he said. "The war is over."

Thranduil looked over at the insolent. "With all due respect, Captain Caun," he glared, "At any moment, any other kingdom can turn around and attack us. We are weak; two thirds of our army gone. Enemies with brains will turn around, their eyes fixated on our kingdom."

Caun nearly sighed. "Where are these enemies?" he asked.

Thranduil surveyed the allegiances of the other commanding captains. About half were glaring at him, the other half was looking at him somewhat sympathetically. He cursed inwardly. This was no way to start his reign. He did the logical thing: switch gears. But before he could open his mouth, General Thorontur opened his mouth to speak.

"My lord, what of Oropher's funeral?" he asked quietly, yet firmly.

Thranduil looked at his general. His legs were crossed, arms folded, but he displayed a sense of command. His voice demanded respect. Thranduil sighed. Thorontur would be much better than he was at this job.

"My father will have a funeral with the highest honors at the Anduin," Thranduil replied. Several of his counsellors were nodding, a good sign. At least they had loyalty to my father, so if I could constantly turn it back to father, I might earn their respect too. But he dismissed the thought as easily as it came. He couldn't incessantly refer to his father.

The meeting was already tiring him. Thranduil snapped his attention back to the discussion, on what sort of foreign dignitaries would be invited, and the like. He pulled out his parchment and quill, and began the exhausting task of planning a funeral without thinking of whom it was for.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Thank you all for support, reviews and comments. A tip of the hat to all those who read, reviewed and/or followed! A fair note about the following segment: It's a bit shorter than the others. I'll update two times this week to make up for it. :)

Disclaimer: Everything except for the following characters are Professor Tolkien's (The names Thorontur and Fion are TolkienScribe's): Irien, all council members, Serindir, Avorsel, and Linneth.

* * *

Thranduil stared at the crown of woodland flowers, the very crown his father wore. Since he had returned to Mirkwood, Thranduil had refused to don the crown. It seemed wrong; wrong that he should take up his father's crown. It would be a final goodbye to his father, a final statement that seemed too inferior. The very action would show Mandos that he accepted his father's death. And the truth was anything but that. Yet someone had laid the crown on his dresser, as a way of telling him to wear it to his Oropher's funeral at the Anduin.

He could not stomach the idea of wearing his father's crown, so instead, he placed a fillet of silver with a single droplet of diamond on his head. Oropher had it made for Thranduil to wear for several occasions, who preferred it rather than the burdened crown of leaves.

Thranduil checked his weapons one last time: sword, sheathed and primed for use at his side, bow and arrows strapped to his back, also ready for action. He slid a dagger in his boot, and swept out of the doors, his silver robes billowing out behind him.

* * *

He stared at the figure lying in a beautiful wooden boat. Thranduil tried not to look at his father's face, dead now, yet looking so alive at the same time. He could imagine his father suddenly sitting up, brilliant blue eyes open and awake. He could imagine his father's wide smile, and a laugh as he explained how it was all a farce, a joke. A cruel joke, yes, but a joke nonetheless. Of course, nothing happened to the corpse in the boat. The vessel was made of polished wood, gleaming in the evening sunlight. But the finery didn't matter; Oropher, King of the Woodland Realm, was gone forever into the dark abyss of no return. The same would be true if he were lying in a shack in a deserted meadow leagues away.

"My lord?" came a voice, asking.

Thranduil whirled around. Behind him were Thorontur, and two other captains of the army: Fion and Mindon. It dawned on him that they and he were to be the entourage that supported the last vessel of Oropher to the banks of the Anduin. He vaguely remembered Thorontur informing him of such an occurrence. It was where the latest king of Mirkwood would make his last journey into Belegaer, the Great Sea, and away from the circles of the world. The reasoning? Elves didn't bury their dead. It was a tradition of the Naugrim. The Eldar also didn't burn their dead kings like pigs on a spit. No, to the sea they must go.

"Yes, my friends. Shall we?" he asked quietly, motioning.

So Thranduil Oropherion, General Thorontur and Captains Fion and Mindon marched solemnly into the clearing of trees by a grassy bank of the Anduin River with the body of their former king and general on their shoulders. There were few beings present; the council had agreed on that much. Oropher would not have wanted a massive affair of trumpets and long speeches. So Elrond Peredhil and his children, as well as Galadriel and the rest of the Galadhrim were in attendance.

An ethereal Elvish melody erupted into the silent air, full of dissonant and haunting chords. Thranduil refused to allow himself to display emotion on his face, hoping tears wouldn't come in the presence of such mighty company. He and his comrades lowered the boat onto the reeds by the shore.

The sun was a bloody red, as deep and scarlet of the blood that watered the plains of Dagorlad. The last of its rays were being casted on the waters of the river, reflecting off its rippling surface. It would have been a beautiful day, if it were not for the circumstances.

The melody reached a breaking point, a crash of chords and a melody washing over it, sorrowful and nostalgic. Thorontur, Fion and Mindon had retreated to the depths of the crowd, leaving Thranduil alone at the river. He cast one last look at his father.

He made sure he remembered every single detail. The slight curve of his jaw, the slight silvery tinge in his hair, bathed in sunlight. Thranduil felt tears prick the back of his eyes. "Namarie, Adar," he whispered. Then, slowly bending down, he gently pushed the boat away from the reeds and into the swift current of the Anduin. Thranduil straightened, letting his hands fall limp at his side as he spent long seconds watching the boat disappear into the horizon.

What now? What did do before this? What did he take joy in? Why did he laugh? Was there anything? Thranduil wanted to curl up and hold his head in his hands, leaving the world of responsibility away, far away in the distance. The dark emptiness threatened to close in, so near to his aching heart. Thranduil didn't have the strength left to beat it back. So inch by inch, centimetre by centimetre, the bareness of void sunk in and took its hold.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: And, as promised, an early update! Thank you all.

Disclaimer: Everything except for the following characters are Professor Tolkien's (The names Thorontur and Fion are TolkienScribe's): Irien, all council members, Serindir, Avorsel, and Linneth.

* * *

Thranduil found himself facing the portrait of his father again. "Mae govannen, Adar," he began. "What are the stars like, above Belegaer? Are they any different? Is Eärendil brighter, Adar?" he asked. He glanced at the parchment on his desk. Someone slipped it there daily, his schedule for the day etched out in that unforgiving black ink.

He was slated for several meetings: one with Fion, the other with Mindon, and one for the entire council. It was the first one after Oropher's funeral. Thranduil hoped against hope that they would have some mercy with him; not feed him to the wolves. He sighed.

"I do not wish to attend the meetings," he admitted aloud, glancing back at his father's painting. He sighed again. It was becoming a more and more familiar sound nowadays. "But go I must." Strengthening his resolve, he swept out of the door and down to the council hall of nightmares.

* * *

Thranduil wanted to bury his head in his arms, curl up and leave. His counsellors had been arguing about whether or not to offer aid to the rest of the kingdoms after the battle.

"Yet they suffered heavy losses also!" Agarwen was arguing.

Thranduil almost rolled his eyes, irritated to the highest degree. "And so did we," he asserted. "They are the Noldorin. They can fend for themselves."

"We can help them too," Erfaron said quietly.

Thorontur leaned forward. "We have our own troubles to look for, in our own borders." Thranduil mentally frowned. Thorontur had been backing him in almost every single debate the council had since the fall of Oropher.

"We lost two thirds of our force," Thranduil said. "We do not have the capacity to help the Noldor and sustain our own defenses."

"Against what?" Caun demanded. "What do we have to fear? Sauron is decimated."

"There are more evils than Sauron in the world, Caun," Istor said dryly.

There was a pause in the discussion, the Elven lords realizing they may never reach an agreement on the topic. In fact, there had been nothing they had agreed upon. The inadequacy of Thranduil's entire reign seemed to weigh down on him, a pressing burden that crushed him every day.

The notion was recognized by more than half of the counsellors.

"My lord Thranduil," Agarwen said, "You are still young for the kingship, a small green leaf on a massive tree. Your father did not know of what was to transpire. I urge you to appoint a steward, so you may grieve in peace."

So they thought he was a weakling, an incompetent young elf. They thought he was not capable, not knowledgeable enough to be the king. His blood boiled at the thought, a deep anger rising up inside him. Oh, the suggestion sounded tempting. So tempting. But Thranduil knew, in some sane recess of his insane mind, that his father would want him to stand up and be strong. Yet he could appoint Thorontur as a steward….. Thranduil forced himself to stop. It would injure his pride forever. He would never be able to recover. No, he had to overcome in his own way, not by backing down and shriveling at the first wind.

"Lord Agarwen, I appreciate your concern," he said calmly. "But I shall rule the kingdom in the way I see fit. Worry not, I shall not fall into insanity any time soon."

Thorontur chuckled, the only one to appreciate the jest.

"My lord," he said. "My father, Serindir of the House Dair, emissary of Mirkwood is presently stationed in Imladris. You could call him back to Eryn Galen to give a thorough report on the condition of the Noldor."

Thranduil mused on the thought. "Yes," he finally agreed.

The counsellors glowered. Thranduil sighed inwardly yet another time. How would he ever gain the approval of all? If the first days were bad, how would it ever get better? His head ached, begging for fresh air and a cleared mind.

"Avorsel," he ordered his messenger.

"Yes, my lord," she bowed.

"Send word to Lord Serindir in Imladris. Tell him he is to report in Eryn Galen."

"Yes, my lord," she repeated, backing out of the door to saddle her horse and to fulfill her lord's wishes.

"Now you all," Thranduil drawled, turning his attention to his discontent counsellors. "Be gone. We shall make a final decision when Lord Serindir arrives."

Muttering, the council members stood and left the room in pairs. Soon, there was only Thorontur and Thranduil left in the massive chamber. All at once, he felt so insignificant and small, only one among millions of insignificants in this world, pulled together into something that is mildly significant in the grand scheme of the universe.

Thorontur stood, steel in his eyes. He bowed. "My lord," he murmured, and left.

Thranduil had never felt so alone.

* * *

"Father!" he almost yelled at the painting. Oropher continued to glare at him. "You!" He shook a trembling finger at his father. "You left me alone, alone to the wolves, alone to fend for myself!" He slammed the painting down, a loud clatter of the metal frame on wood. "You never cared! They all hate me now, they think I'm incapable, small!"

Thranduil kicked the wall, pain lancing through his foot. He yelled something incoherent, one part of him afraid, afraid of what he had become. But that burning anger was much stronger, lashing out at everything and everyone. He slid down the wood-paneled walls, punishing himself for all the wrongs of the world. It hurt, but Thranduil welcomed the pain, pain through violence. He felt like he had somehow earned it.

Finally, exhausted and shattered, Thranduil finally sat huddled in that shadowy corner, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. Absolutely nothing passed in his mind during this time: he merely sat and stared. The sun set, the stars had come out. Still, he continued his steadfast watch on a dark knot of wood in the panel. For there was nothing, nothing left for him in the world. Nothing.

* * *

The days had passed like a whirlwind, filled with council meetings and trainings. The army corps mandatory training was somewhat better; only, the patterns and rotations Oropher once called to his army now were barked out by Thranduil. And the meetings! They were practically living hell. Every single time, those generals beat him to the ground. By now, it was as if he were a puppet king, the real power from the advisors.

It seemed like he and his counsellors and captains disagreed on everything. On some most debates, there were more than two sides. Thranduil's only constant supporter was Thorontur, yet he was cool and distant when Thranduil approached him. In this world, he was truly alone. He never realized how much his father meant to him until he was gone. And now there was no way of going back.


	5. Chapter 5

One day, Thranduil had finally fallen into a fitful sleep after another yelling and roaring bout with his silent father in the painting when he was woken a few hours later, sitting straight up in bed, eyes wide. Sweat dampened the sheets and covers. He had dreamed that he saw his father, alive and healthy again. But he had been beaten over and over and over again, until he looked exactly like what he was at the doors of Barad-Dur. Thranduil's feet were fixed to the ground; he was rendered useless and motionless. His father had said the same last words. "Don't mourn me."

Thranduil buried his face in his hands and tried to forget.

* * *

But worse were the whispers of the people. Thranduil had woken up one day, eyes red and hair disheveled to almost trip on a parchment slid under his door. It was a report on the rumors running in the Woodland Realm. Topping the list, in neat, black handwriting was, 'The young Elvenking may be too inexperienced to lead the people.' It was underlined, in that Valar-forsaken black ink, that condemning blow.

It was almost as if he didn't care anymore. But in one shred of his somewhat-sane mind, Thranduil knew he couldn't give up. But that voice was diminishing, getting smaller and smaller, quieter and quieter by the day. Even those thoughts were enough to make his head spin. Thranduil staggered to his still-sweaty bed and collapsed in it, his eyes closing as his unkempt head touched the filthy pillowcase.

Sometime during the night, Thranduil woke, feeling as if he were shoving boulders off his chest. It was occurring more and more often now, at least five times a night. He felt restless, tossing and turning. The mattress groaned and fell silent. The silence was deafening; the night pressed in on him, the stifling air suffocating his lungs, like a huge weight on his chest.

So, he had swung his legs over the edge of the bed. On unsteady feet, he wobbled to his closet and stuck his hand in, taking out a random dagger from the deadly assortment on the side: daggers, knives, double-handed swords, his own one-handed sword, bows, arrows, spears. Thranduil inwardly grinned, wondering somewhere in the back of his confused, muddled mind if they should really allow him to have all these weapons.

Gripping his dagger, Thranduil threw open his door and headed somewhere. Anywhere but that smothering jail that they called a room. His feet wandered this way and that. Twice he almost crashed into the walls, or imposing pillars of stone. Just a couple weeks ago, Thranduil Oropherion was a proud prince of the Woodland Realm. Now, he was a dilapidated wreck of a living being. Not that he really cared anymore.

Somehow, he found himself in the library. It had never been a particularly favorite place for him, reminding him of angry tutors and endless hours sitting by and reading enormous, obscure texts. But he was far too weary to go somewhere else.

Finding a shadowy corner, Thranduil leaned against the heavy tomes, his back brushing the leather spines. The Woodland Realm was not known for its vast libraries, but they did contain a fair amount. Closing his eyes, Thranduil groaned and slid down to rock back and forth on his heels. He missed his father. He wished Oropher would suddenly appear, kneel next to his broken son, and put the pieces back together again like he always did when Thranduil was a child.

He felt this quake, this thrill that chased up his spine. Only, it was not a shiver of excitement. It didn't bring him joy. In fact, it scared him. It sent a shot of fear through him. He was tired of being a punching bag, verbal and physical. There's only so much a punching bag can bear before dropping to the ground and splitting open, its innards splayed all over the hard-packed floor. You see, it was anger. The same anger that coursed through his veins, the same one that lashes out within a second, wreaking havoc within the radius of earshot. When he heard it, fear shoots through his entire body. Fear, like a rabbit in front of a fox; fear, like a horse chased by a cougar.

Then it made his anger rise too, for a split second. His blood boiled, an uncontrollable anger bubbling up in Thranduil. He wanted to scream and shout.

Pain did not demand to be felt. Instead, it was a constant ache, a mind-numbing hurt. He could choose to ignore it. He could run away from it all he liked. He can be as fast as the Nahar, the steed of the Vala Oromë, and still not evade it. This pain and this anger, it goes round and round, it does. Together, they were a double-pronged sword (or a pitchfork if you like). He could do anything with it he liked. But it hurt. What did I tell you? Pain.

He was whimpering now. It was a pathetic sound, and Thranduil hated himself the more for it. It was weak. It was frail. A king should never be frail. A king should be proud and majestic, an image of the Valar that had once walked this green earth. He rocked himself on his heels, his arms around his legs, head on his knees. Weak. Coward. Powerless. Worthless. Inept. Unskilled. These words circled in his head like vultures, coming ever closer for his corpse, lying just like his father's there in the battlefields of Mordor. The end was inevitable. Life was meaningless.

But death? That cold void would offer a respite from the suffocating affliction known as life. And there, in those beautiful halls of Mandos, he would find his father. Thranduil imagined himself reaching through the veil, grabbing his father's hand. Oropher's tough embrace. How long would it take? He wondered. How long would it take to get there? Thranduil was trembling all over now, shaking like a small, insignificant leaf in a giant storm. Tears ran unashamedly down his face, dripping on his knees. He took a shuddering breath, trying to control himself.

Thranduil was too weak for the hurts of the world. He didn't want to have to care about anything anymore. He didn't want to have to carry the responsibilities, the lives of his people. The dagger bit into his hand once again, drawing a line of blood from his palm.

He had once been shown where to stab, in case an enemy had taken him for hostage. Thranduil inspected the emerald-incrusted dagger again, holding it up in the moonlight….

And it was gone. It had clattered to the side, knocked from his hand by some force. He looked at it, disbelieving. A book had been thrown at his hand, the dagger cast aside. Thranduil yelled something he couldn't comprehend. It was probably Agarwen, Thranduil's guilt and weakness written all over his face. Now they would depose him for sure, set up some other puppet king on the throne. He curled up against the shelves, tears streaking his face. He wanted a dark hole to open up in the earth and swallow him whole.

"Leave," he growled. Thranduil made to retrieve his dagger, but a boot kicked it aside. He closed his eyes shut, not daring to look into the face of his tormenter.

When he opened his eyes once more, there was a hand, palm facing up.

"Get up," a voice whispered.

Thranduil shook his head, closing his eyes once more, tears leaking out from the corners of his eyes. "No," he hissed.

"Get up," the voice said again, more forceful this time.

Thranduil shook his head. He didn't want to get out of this dark abyss he had dug himself into.

"I don't care who you are, Thranduil. You will stand. Get. Up," the voice said again.

Thranduil cast one last look in the direction his dagger had gone. He turned his gaze to the hand, still in front of him.

He hadn't realized it, but….. it was a familiar hand. One scar, on the thumb… He knew.

Would his father want him to die? Would his father welcome him if he died now? Thranduil wasn't convinced. His father would be disappointed, angry even, that he had thrown away his life so easily. And although the world still seemed a bleak hell of dark abysses, thorny vines, and powerful creatures that lay watchful for the ones that dare try to walk the paths which they guard, although the world his predecessors left him was broken and destroyed, although he was the inheritor of a mangled and mutilated world of ash and dust, he would never fail his father. The Thranduil before Oropher's death would never give up the sky.

So with a trembling, weak hand, Thranduil Oropherion grasped the hand, and stood.


	6. Chapter 6

Thranduil looked into dark brown eyes. Those eyes. He knew those eyes too. They brought him a torrent of memories, remnants of the past that he had fought hard to shove into the back of his mind.

 _"I got you!" the brown-eyed elfling shrieked with delight. The two had been chasing each other around the dense forest, the autumn-brown leaves crunching under their bare feet. She was so focused on making sure Thranduil didn't sneak up behind her and scare her that she crashed into a tree. An auburn-haired lady watching nearby laughed behind her beautiful, delicate hands._

 _The little elfling scowled. "Naneth!" she said. "It's not funny!"_

 _The lady fought to keep a straight face. "No, Irien. It isn't funny. Not funny at all."_

 _Thranduil laughed. "It was pretty funny to me," he said, only half-joking._

 _Irien turned to Thranduil. She yelled at him, laughing and smiling the entire time, continuing to play their little game. Like her mother, she too could not keep a straight face for long._

 _Irien's naneth had brought out delicious lemon tarts for the two to eat halfway through the game. The three sat, eating lemon tarts. Thranduil licked his sticky, lemon-tarty fingers._

 _"Hmmm," he declared. "That was good."_

 _The auburn haired Linneth, Irien's naneth, laughed. "I'm glad you enjoy my baking," she said._

 _The two little elflings played long into afternoon, till the sun had nearly set, the moon raised._

 _Before the two parted ways, Thranduil asked, "Tomorrow?"_

 _Irien nodded, her golden hair blowing out in the night breeze. "Tomorrow," she confirmed._

* * *

 _They were older now. Thranduil sat in Linneth's house, with Irien, Thorontur and Linneth. Thranduil looked up to Thorontur, who was older than he. Thorontur was narrating, for the umpteenth time, what the military academy was like._

 _"Wow," Thranduil breathed when he heard about the grueling drills and exercises. He turned to Linneth. "Do you think I will get into the academy too? Like Thorontur?"_

 _Linneth smiled. "I'm sure you will, Thranduil. Your father will make sure of it."_

 _"Good," he replied, satisfied._

 _"Me too!" Irien piped in. "I want to go too, like my big brother!" She cast a look at Thorontur._

 _Thorontur smiled. "I know you will both enjoy it," he said knowingly._

 _Thranduil turned to Irien. "When we both get into the academy, we'll look out for each other," he said._

 _"Of course!" Irien chirped, laughing. "I don't think I could get through it alone, anyway."_

 _Linneth watched her two children and the young prince talk about their futures like pompous little birds. If her heart could smile, it would have._

* * *

 _"Do you swear?" Irien asked solemnly. It was the eve of the two elflings' induction to the academy. They stood under a canopy of leaves, some turning golden brown in face of autumn._

 _"I promise I will be your friend in good times and bad times, in hardships and joys," Thranduil announced gravely. He took the small knife in Irien's hand and pricked his thumb. A single small droplet of ruby seeped out. Irien followed his lead._

 _"There!" Thranduil declared. "Now we will be friends forever._

 _Neither knew the significance, or insignificance, rather, of their little pact, made with innocence and simplicity, forged by bonds of childhood friendship. Time would take its due._

* * *

 _Thranduil collapsed back into his chair by the fire, utterly exhausted. "No one cares about the First Age!" he complained. "We shouldn't get assigned so many essays!"_

 _Irien raised an eyebrow as she finished a sentence on her parchment from her seat across Thranduil. "You signed up for this," she reminded him, not for the first, nor last time._

 _Thranduil sighed and returned back to his paper. A minute later, he looked up. "Who was the one that established Gondolin? Was it Turgon or Thingol? I get their names mixed up."_

 _"I'm pretty sure it's Turgon," Irien replied. "Thingol was Melian's husband, and he ruled Menegroth."_

 _"How come you always know the answers?" Thranduil muttered as he jotted it down._

 _"Unlike you, I pay attention in class," Irien replied, smiling. She stood up. "I'm done," she declared triumphantly._

 _Thranduil looked at her disbelievingly. "You can't be!" he exclaimed._

 _"I am," she said, laughing. "I have to go. See you around." With that, she skipped to the doorway, golden hair flying, down to the halls beyond._

 _Thranduil turned to his pile of homework and sighed._

* * *

 _Thranduil cast a look at Irien. "I can't," he said._

 _"But you promised, Thranduil! You said we'd look out for each other!"_

 _He heard the sound of his friends coming up the hall behind him. "Thranduil!" they called. "Come on! Let's go to the lake!"_

 _Thranduil looked at Irien again. Her arms were held loosely by her side, but her fists were clenched. Irien said nothing, but Thranduil could see the disappointment in her eyes._

 _"Thranduil, are you coming or not?" His friends were getting impatient._

 _"I'm sorry, Irien. I can't," he managed to get out._

 _Irien swallowed and nodded._

 _So without wanting to glance back, Thranduil ran off with his friends._

* * *

 _Irien was waiting by the entrance when Thranduil returned. She sat on the stone steps, a book propped up on her knees. Irien looked up as she heard Thranduil jog back, crunching through the leaves. He made to ignore her, going up the stairs, until her voice stopped him._

 _"So you're just going to ignore me," she said in monotone._

 _Thranduil didn't know what to say, so he settled with, "I thought you did not wish to speak."_

 _"Not to you," she replied, staring daggers at him. Those brown eyes bore into Thranduil's blue ones. He shifted, uncomfortable. "I just thought I might give you a chance to say something for yourself."_

 _"Erm….." he just wanted to leave now. "Sorry?" Thranduil offered._

 _"Alright."_

 _And with that, not wanting to further complicate the issue, Thranduil took off, running up the steps and into the academy._

 _Irien watched until he disappeared, swallowed up by the unrelenting stone. It was the last time she spoke to him for a long, long time._

* * *

 _Oropher looked at his son with a strict look on his face. "Have you been focusing on your studies?" he asked sternly._

 _Thranduil fidgeted, shifting his weight on one foot then another. "Yes," he said._

 _"And you haven't been going to the lake, neglecting your studies?" Oropher raised an eyebrow._

 _The young prince gaped. "How do you know about the lake?"_

 _Oropher almost smiled, deciding not to answer. "You need to focus on your studies," he said._

 _"But everyone else who's going are enjoying themselves!" Thranduil complained._

 _Oropher knelt down to face his son. "You, Thranduil, are not everyone else." He took his son's hands. "You are the Crown Prince. And one day, you will become their king."_

 _Thranduil swallowed. "Yes, father," he said._

 _But in his heart of hearts, he knew he wouldn't obey._


	7. Chapter 7

Thranduil stepped out into the cool air for the first time in days. He almost wanted to go back inside, to the safe confines of his room. But he had promised Irien, and he wasn't going to fail this one last time. Anyway, he would humor her for a while. Then, he would crawl back into his decrepit hole. Whether he liked to admit it or not, wallowing in his own self-pity was much easier than trying to get up and do something for a change.

* * *

Irien trudged through the woods, toward the palace entrance where she instructed Thranduil to meet. That night in the library, when she had seen her old friend, reduced to a whimpering mess, was when she decided to forget the past wounds and brush past the old scars. She had not the foresight to see what was ahead, but she knew that she must help her friend, though he had betrayed and forgotten her, so many years ago.

* * *

Thranduil spied Irien, her periwinkle blue dress bouncing around her knees as she walked.

"Mae govannen," she greeted as she finally reached him.

He inclined his head. "What... exactly do you have planned?"

She turned around towards the forest, gesturing and laughing. "We, my friend, shall walk."

"Why?"

She turned her gaze on Thranduil. "Because you have been cooped up for too long in that stone palace." Irien started off, and turned around, realizing Thranduil was still standing at the steps.

"Are you coming?" she asked.

So Thranduil could do nothing but follow.

They walked in silence until Irien spotted a bird, taking flight above the dense canopy of trees. "Look!" she cried, pointing. The bird was a dark blur against the blue sky, soaring high above, its wings outstretched. Irien laughed. "Isn't it beautiful?" she asked.

Thranduil didn't answer. "Why do you do this?" he countered.

Irien looked affronted. "Because," she explained as if he were a young child, "you were my friend, and you are my king. Is that not enough?"

Thranduil swallowed, at a loss for words.

"My mother used to tell me about the birds," he finally said, shrugging. "She would tell me stories about Gwaihir the Windlord, or Thorondur the Lord of the Eagles."

Irien laughed. A minute would not go by without her smiling or laughing. Thranduil took note of that, storing it into his mind's neatly labeled set of file drawers.

"I loved the Eagles too. It used to make me feel so powerful, like I could go anywhere, do anything, be free." Irien replied.

"I wanted to fly when I was young," Thranduil admitted. "Then I hit my head on the corner of the desk as I jumped off my father's bed."

Irien managed to keep a straight face, but Thranduil could see the amusement in her eyes. "Probably not such a brilliant idea," she said.

So the two walked along the gravel paths of Greenwood the Great, laughing and talking as if no time had passed between their first meetings, thousands of years ago under those same trees. But the world was changed, marred by Sauron the Deceiver, and nothing was simple anymore. It was no longer a question and an answer- it was a confused, tangled mess of words and tricks and lies.

* * *

The two rested at a small creek, running and splashing at their feet. Irien sat on the small bridge connecting the two banks, legs dangling over the edge. Thranduil took a seat at the base of a tree at one embankment, arms wrapped around his legs. He suddenly gave a small laugh as Irien pulled out carefully wrapped lemon tarts from a bag.

"Remember, all those years ago when we were running around in the forest?" Thranduil asked, laughing quietly.

"Well, that did occur quite often," Irien replied.

"You running into a tree did happen quite often, I suppose," Thranduil mused.

Irien's pale face turned slightly pink. "In fact, I do remember a certain Elven princeling stuck in a tree like a sloth because he was too frightened to get down!" she retorted.

"That only happened once!" Thranduil protested.

Irien raised an eyebrow and suddenly tossed a lemon tart at Thranduil.

He, of course, caught it in one hand. "Was that an attack?"

Irien snorted. "Of course, Your Magnanimous Majesty! A lemon tart in your face could have done great damage."

Thranduil considered it for a while, still keeping the lemon tart balanced delicately on his long fingers. "It could have. It would have damaged my pride."

"That, I would pay to see!" Irien exclaimed. "Just imagine! The crumbs of lemon tart on a very angry Elvenking!"

"Other than the threat of death," Thranduil said.

Irien shrugged. "I highly doubt you would order my death because I threw a lemon tart at your face. But you can do as you like."

"If you were slightly less amiable, I would. There would be no one to make fun of otherwise."

"Bah!" Irien replied, throwing another tart at Thranduil.

There was a slight silence as the two ate their fill of Linneth's lemon tarts. Irien shot a glance at Thranduil, who was licking his fingers in a most un-kingly manner.

"How have your council meetings been?" Irien ventured to ask.

"That's not an innocent question," Thranduil said, still staring at his fingers. "Thorontur has attended all of them."

"Your thoughts and my brother's differ," Irien replied.

Thranduil took a great sigh, irritated.

"Ah," Irien replied, crossing her arms. "I've heard that the other Noldorin kingdoms are requesting aid from Mirkwood."

"You overstep your bounds," Thranduil growled. There was a still silence in the air, as if the warm breeze had turned to ice. Thranduil had almost forgotten about reality just seconds ago, but he now retreated into his shell.

Irien nodded in response, ignoring the ominous scowl on Thranduil's countenance. "You could appease your counsellors by bringing the Noldor the surplus harvest, in return for superior armor."

Thranduil's scowl grew even more menacing.

"Oh, you can't admit they have exceptional craftsmanship!" Irien cried, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

"Our own will suffice," Thranduil gritted his teeth.

"Of course! And what of when superior weapons are created? Ones that can pierce our armor like a knife in soft butter? What then?"

Thranduil glared at Irien. "For once, can you cease your incessant chatter?"

Irien opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again, expressionless.

Thranduil knew his words had stung, but he couldn't take them back.

"Yes, sir," Irien whispered. She straightened. "Then perhaps we should leave. It will soon be nightfall." In fact, the sun was still high in the sky, barely passing its zenith.

She turned.

Thranduil wanted to ask her to stop walking, stop slowly disappearing into a speck in the distance. Yet he could not bring himself to.

Irien, on the other hand, wanted him to halt. But he didn't know, and she could never go back now.

Something had to happen. Something drastic, something unforeseen, for any of this to unravel and be put behind. There were too many wounds from the past that still ached, deep inside. Thranduil inhaled the sweet, cold air, and swallowed his pride.

"Wait!" he cried, leaping to his feet.

She stopped, her back still to him.

"I'm sorry," he managed to choke out.

Irien inclined her head.

"Perhaps we shall meet tomorrow? The library?" Thranduil was now grasping at straws.

"Perhaps," Irien whispered, as soft as the rustle of wind in the trees. Then she was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

To put it simply, Thranduil was miserable with himself. He had taken his chance at mending his companionship with a childhood friend, and squandered it. Just as he had done when he was still in the academy. She had tried to drag him out of his own self-pity, and he had taken it all for granted.

He stared, hollow-eyed, at the ceiling. It had done him well, in reality. Instead of collapsing with lethargy upon arrival, he sat down at his desk for the first time in what had seemed like eternity, and worked on a council proposal for the exchange of surplus harvest and Noldorin armor.

It wasn't ready to be presented just yet, but he had informed the council in the afternoon that he was in the formulation of a plan. Agarwen and Caun had sighed and rolled their eyes somewhat discretely. They didn't even bother to hide their disdain anymore. But what bothered him the most was Thorontur. His most trusted general had stayed behind after the rest of the councilmen left.

"Thranduil," he had said with a tremulous voice as Thranduil attempted to leave.

"Thorontur." Was the curt reply.

"My sister." Thorontur said, as Thranduil's stomach sank. "She grieves for you." Thorontur looked slightly menacingly at his king. "She already has enough on her shoulders without the weight of your cold dismissals. I suggest you tread carefully."

In all his years, Thranduil had never been so terrified by Thorontur.

Still staring at the ceiling, Thranduil made a decision. At least he could say he tried so he couldn't blame himself in the very likely scenario that it wouldn't work. But it would be a decision to right the wrongs. And maybe, just maybe, he could learn to live again.

* * *

Returning to the library was nothing short of torture. Every shadowy corner brought back memories and thoughts to Thranduil's mind, ones that he had fought to keep locked forever in a drawer with a missing key. More than once, Thranduil nearly turned back and fled. But he stood his ground, reminding himself over and over again that a king would never leave any misdeed unaddressed. A king would never flee from memories, no matter how agonizing they were. A king like his father would be strong.

He sat at a table with his boots propped up on the dark wood, a book in his lap and the council proposal outline on the table. Time galloped by, swallowing the hours, and Thranduil began to wonder if Irien really would forgive him.

It was nearly dusk, and Thranduil almost collected his belongings and left, resigned to his condemnation. But he then heard the sound of boots clicking on the white marble floors. Irien.

She was dressed as Lieutenant Serindir this day, the standard green cloak billowing out behind her. Irien was armed to the teeth, double daggers at her back, a sword at her side. Thranduil would bet the stars that she had knives in her boots too. He reminded himself to be careful. If anything went ill, it could get dangerous fast.

"I was beginning to wonder…" he trailed off.

"Whether I would come?" Irien asked.

Thranduil nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

A silence filled the room.

"I'm glad to see that you are still among the living," Irien said a bit stiffly.

"Me too," Thranduil admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. This was more awkward than he thought. "Your brother was quite intimidating yesterday."

Irien laughed shortly. "He does have the ability to be frightening."

Another pause.

"Erm…. I drew up an outline for the proposal. Harvest surplus in exchange for armor. Would you… could you, perhaps, look over it?" Thranduil asked.

Irien considered it for a while. "For merely academic purposes, yes."

Thranduil smiled, dragging a chair to the table, and offering Irien a seat as if it were a sophisticated dinner ball.

The two looked through the smallest details of the proposal, from wording to sentence structure. The sun had already dipped far below the horizon, and candles had been lit to keep the light. Finally, Thranduil dropped his quill on the desk and declared he was finished, rubbing his eyes.

"Why had Finrod sacrificed himself for Beren?" Irien mumbled.

"Does this pertain to the coming harvest?" Thranduil asked, slightly perplexed.

Irien laughed. "No. I was merely thinking. I've been reading. And a young soldier mentioned it today during training. He must have had an impressively thorough history teacher," she said, waving it away.

Thranduil arched his brow. "Oh, stop it!" Irien exclaimed.

Thranduil considered the amount of weaponry there was in the near vicinity and decided to examine the question carefully, lest something more... violent occur. "I always believed it was because of the oath of friendship he swore to Barahir."

"Yet Beren had released him from his oath before. Finrod wasn't obliged to save him from the wolf. He could have argued his part was merely to contest Sauron. I thought he sacrificed himself for Beren because he was a great king, looking beyond his survival into the future of Arda," Irien replied.

"Or for Amarië," Thranduil added. "She was in Valinor. Finrod thought he may return to her by death."

"Then he loved her very much," Irien said softly, more a comment to herself than to Thranduil.

Their gazes met, then flittered away.


	9. Chapter 9

Thranduil carefully rapped on the door. Irien had invited him to dine with her and Thorontur that night. He first thought to decline, than thought better of it, considering his strained relationship with his old friend and general, Thorontur.

The door opened to a somewhat-flustered Irien. She wore a white apron, and was drying her hands on the cloth as she opened the door.

"My apologies, my Lord. I was… running late."

He waved it away, stepping over the threshold. The house brought back so many memories; it was like being young again. Young and carefree and happy, skipping into this house, plopping himself down onto the comfortable velvet couch that was still in the corner.

"I once fell here," Thranduil murmured, treading lightly on the meticulously polished wooden floor. "Ran too fast and slipped."

Irien raised her eyebrows. "I can imagine that," she said finally, laughing.

Thranduil laughed lightly.

"I ought to finish the bread," Irien said, stepping into the kitchen. Thranduil followed her, taking a seat at a tall counter.

Irien tossed a roll of dough to Thranduil, who caught it in a free hand. "Will you knead that? Thorontur will arrive soon."

Thranduil held the dough awkwardly, attempting to knead it. Irien turned around from her own work to check on his progress. It took considerable willpower to avoid laughter.

"You have never baked bread before?" she asked incredulously.

Silence. "Well, I have participated in cooking duty during training and orc raids," Thranduil offered.

Irien bit her lip to keep from doubling over in silent fits of hysterics. "Ah. So you know how to turn a raw piece of meat into a charred mess. But you still have not baked beard. Here," she said, chortling.

So began the culinary education of the new Elvenking. He was more prone to attacking the dough rather than kneading it, but his work sufficed. Soon, the bread was baking in the oven.

Irien cleansed her hands in the basin, as did Thranduil. Sharply turning around, he flicked his still-wet hands at Irien.

The expression on her face turned from amazement to delight. She swept the bit of flour that was left on the wooden board into Thranduil's face. He became a white ghost, powdered with white.

Presently, lobs of flour, water and anything else within reach were acting as flying projectiles. It was a form of guerrilla warfare, ambushing and ducking behind counters. Irien narrowly avoided being hit in the face by a portion of leftover dough. Her hair went flying as she ducked in front of the door. Thranduil aimed another lob at her.

But in that moment, the door opened, revealing a stern Thorontur just returning from drills with his corps. And that lob of dough landed in his face instead.

Thranduil cringed, waiting for a strict lecture on the dangers of throwing flour and water (and meat pounders, but we'll keep that a secret for now).

But it never came.

Thorontur laughed. His laugh was much like his sister's, joyful and airy. But perhaps it had a hint of sorrow and nostalgia and pain that was slightly less masked.

"I see you have been having a war of sorts," Thorontur commented as he slung his cloak on a peg. Thranduil glanced outside the window to avoid catching Thorontur's eyes, seeing the sun beginning to sink below the horizon, casting bloody rays across the trees. Whoops.

* * *

The mess of flour, water and dough was cleaned up and the three were soon seated at the formal dining room. The long mahogany table was painted ebony black, a tasteful red runner draped in the middle. Candles stood in the center, flickering and bobbing merrily. Irien had prepared soup, coupled with the bread that Thranduil had prepared.

He gently tore off a bit, popping it into his mouth. It wasn't bad. Not bad at all…

Irien was watching him. She took a deep, fake sigh. "I think the bread is just a bit too…. dry," she drawled. "Too…. attacked."

Thorontur laughed. "Too salty," he added.

Thranduil threw a torn piece at Thorontur, who promptly caught it in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed.

"Perhaps not," Irien concluded, smiling at the spectacle. She cocked her head to the side, as if listening to something far in the distance, and stood. "I will return soon," she said, giving Thorontur a pointed look. She nodded to Thranduil, and took off.

"Where did she go?" Thranduil voiced aloud.

The rest of the meal passed in conversation between the two comrades. Thorontur seemed to forgive Thranduil for his cold dismissal to Irien that day in the forest. They spoke of the times before the war, times after the war. But never about the war. It was something no one was loath to forget. Every time it loomed up in his mind like a dark storm cloud, Thranduil always pushed it back to the recesses of his mind, forcing himself to pay attention to the present.

Thranduil stood to clear the table. Irien had still not returned, her bowl of soup still cooling. Thorontur followed his gaze. "She will be here soon," Thorontur said quietly.

Thranduil nodded, unconvinced. It was unlike Irien to abandon a guest. He slipped into the kitchen, setting down his utensils.

There was a soft murmur from the right wing. He could hear it faintly, difficult even for his elvish ears to detect. Thranduil moved as lithely and slowly as a dark panther, creeping towards the sound.

After several wrong turns and rooms containing clothing and armor, he stumbled upon an open door. A soft glow emanated from the inside. The murmurs were indeed voices.

Though the door was open, Thranduil knocked. The sound was surprisingly loud.

Irien appeared at the door. She bit her lip.

"May I come in?" Thranduil asked.

Irien nodded quickly, ducking her head and stepping aside to let him enter.

Thranduil took a step in. He almost gasped.

It was Linneth. Not the Linneth he knew those years ago, with bright auburn hair and twinkling eyes. Her hair was streaked in silver and white now, which was uncharacteristic for the immortal Eldar, and perhaps more unkempt than it was before.

Linneth turned around to Irien, who was arranging already perfectly placed dishes on a tray. "Lalwen?" she asked.

Thranduil lifted an eyebrow slightly. Lalwen?

"Yes, Linneth?"

"Thank you for bringing me supper. It was delicious.'

"My pleasure," Irien said. Thranduil met her eyes for one moment. They were hollow.

Linneth turned around. "Oh!" she exclaimed as she caught sight of Thranduil. "I know you!"

Irien almost dropped her tray.

"But I don't remember your name. What was it again, dear?" Linneth continued.

"Thranduil Oropherion," he managed to choke out.

"Ah! I haven't seen Oropher in a good long while. He talked my husband…. Serindir, that's his name, into bringing Lalwen here to care for me every day. And she has been doing an extraordinarily good job." Linneth said. "Where did you say you were from, dearie?" she continued, turning to Irien.

"The north," Irien said quietly.

"Ah! Northern Greenwood. Where is Oropher now, anyway?" Linneth returned to the original topic.

Thranduil's mouth went parchment dry. Irien stepped in. "He's been away, Linneth,"

"Well, when you see him, tell him to come see me. I know his princes' duties are tough."

Prince?! Thranduil inclined his head to Linneth. "I must take my leave, but I will return soon."

"Yes, yes," she said, waving him away. "Goodbye."

Thranduil was speechless, and Irien was silent. Until they came across Thorontur in the left wing corridor.

Thranduil opened his mouth in a desperate attempt to backpedal out of intruding, but Thorontur held up a hand to stop him.

"We knew you would discover the truth sooner or later," he said grudgingly. "Too inquisitive for your own good."

There was a silence, none really knowing exactly what to say. Thorontur cleared his throat. "I'll excuse myself. Good night. Thranduil, please, you are always welcome in our house." He bowed, touching a finger to his brow in reverence, then swept away.

Thranduil turned to Irien, intending to somehow say something that would sum up all that had happened, but she beat him to it.

"It has been like that for years. At first, we thought they were just slight memory slips. Then it got worse. She didn't recognize me or my brother. She barely knew who my father was. I just told her that I was a maid that got assigned to care for her. Then my father left as the ambassador. He never wanted to take care of problems in our family, and he didn't want to deal with the wife that scarcely remembered him. So he left. But I have to play the dutiful daughter every time he comes back because I hardly see him at all!"

Irien finished the tirade with a frustrated noise in her throat. "And he's coming back. But I shouldn't be speaking about him like this. He works so hard for us." A pause. "And my mother doesn't even remember me, and every time I look at her I see all those years when I would go to her crying, when she would sit with me until I cried myself out. But to her, I am Lalwen the servant girl from someplace she doesn't even remember. The healers say that she probably will never recover. Thorontur and I don't know what to do. "

She pursed her lips.

"Apologies," she whispered after a pause. "These burdens are mine, not yours."

"I am not Linneth, but….," Thranduil wrapped a tentative arm around her. "A king should not care for the burdens of his people?" he asked quietly. "The strongest may be weak at times."

Irien nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Slowly, she turned to face Thranduil, laying her head on his shoulder. She heard a strong heartbeat. Thump thump. Thump thump.

A lone tear found its way down her face.

"Everything will be alright," Thranduil murmured quietly.

Irien could only hope.


	10. Chapter 10

The council had finally decided that, yes, they liked Thranduil's proposal, albeit with a few of their 'suggestions'. More like commands. But it was better than nothing. Presently, Thranduil and Irien were sitting at a table situated outside, just by the main road to the palace. Thranduil was hunched forward, running the feather of his quill across hand, checking the grammar of a letter to the Noldorin. Irien sat, devising a new drill for her troops.

Thranduil cocked his head to the side. He had been trained by Oropher to be constantly vigilant of sounds in the vicinity. Amid the normal sounds of the forest, birds chirping, swords ringing and arrows thudding in the training arena, he heard the sound of a familiar horse. Irien was watching him curiously.

Listen, he mouthed.

She paused for a moment, and her entire face darkened. But within a split second, a stiff smile was plastered onto her face.

"Adar," was all she said.

Seconds later, a powerful bay horse came cantering into the clearing. An equally, if not more powerful and proud rider sat in its saddle. He was perfectly balanced in the saddle, an experienced and skilled horseman. At his hip was a sword nearly as storied as Thranduil's own, intricately shaped and curved. Dark hair, as dark as Irien's was bright floated in his speed. Upon seeing the two, he slowed his pace.

Thranduil and Irien stood, she bowing respectfully to her father. Thranduil remained standing. The elf dismounted gracefully, leaping acrobatically onto the ground.

"Serindir," Thranduil said in greeting.

"My lord," he replied, touching a finger to his brow. He turned his gaze to his daughter. "Irien," he said finally.

"Adar," she replied. It was faint, but Thranduil could hear a certain stiffness in her voice. But her father didn't seem to notice.

"I see you are in good company," he said to her, flicking his dark eyes to Thranduil.

"Irien has been greatly helpful to me in my new position," Thranduil said.

Serendir nodded. "Well, good! As long as you are keeping up with your work as lieutenant!"

"Father, I am Captain of the Second Corps now," Irien said, the same tightness in her voice.

"Ah… And when did you receive your promotion?"

"Several hundred years ago," she replied quietly. "I wrote to you about it."

Her father waved it away. "Letters get lost," he said.

Thranduil internally frowned. He himself had delivered Irien's letter when he visited Serendir in Rivendell. Irien's father knew her little. Such an honor was important to Irien, not to be brushed away lightly.

The ambassador clapped a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "I have meetings to prepare for," he said. "I shall speak with you later."

She nodded.

The Lord Serendir was soon off.

Thranduil turned to Irien, still staring at the dust kicked up by her father's horse.

"I don't want to talk about it," she told him shortly.

He held up a hand in a gesture of surrender, returning to the table. But he could not banish the image of the lonely girl at the side of the road, gazing forlornly at the road into the distance. Thranduil turned his head to the stars, just beginning to peek out of the sky as the sun set. His parents were somewhere out in the west. But Thranduil decided it was much better than having a mother that didn't recognize him, or a father that didn't care. So he tread up to Irien again. Maybe they would find their way out of this confusing mess of life. And maybe, just maybe, they would find their way out together.


	11. Chapter 11 - Epilogue

First of all, thank you to my faithful reviewers and followers! This has really been a great experience for me, and for you too, I hope.

Let me know if you have any plot bunnies up in your mind that you'd like to see written down, and I may actually end up writing and posting them here. I already have a couple that are in various stages of being written, so make sure to check back here in a couple months to read one or two more!

Aright. Enough with the shameless self-advertising. Let's get going.

* * *

Many years had passed; the world had grown gradually more and more peaceful. Well, maybe not entirely peaceful. Just a watchful peace. Thranduil still stationed guards around the borders; occasional orc raids weren't entirely uncommon. But everything was as close to normal without being normal as it would get. The council decided to lay off the young king, at least for a while. Things were finally getting done. Corps and regiments rebuilt, armories restocked.

And yet there were still the days when Thranduil would have to relieve the moment his father died, over and over again in millions of different excruciating ways, until he finally woke up in the darkest of nights, drenched in sweat that felt too much like blood. There were the days that Thranduil barely made it out of his rooms, so tired because he had stayed up all night trying not to fall asleep so the nightmares wouldn't come back to plague him.

But there were the days that the sun rose, shining, and everything in the world seemed new and beautiful and wonderful again, and life seemed like an adventure. When the flowers bloomed and the grass was green, the wind a light breeze in the air. Everything was made new; nothing was the same as before.

Pulling himself back to reality, Thranduil gazed up at the sky, the flame of the little fire flickering merrily. The stars were dusted across the velvety sky, as it was every night of the year. Irien sat beside him, poking a stick into the fire and tapping a rhythm with her feet.

"It's so quiet," she said.

"Even better," Thranduil replied. She laughed a little in response.

The two chatted for a bit; the new lieutenant in her corps, jokes about the pestering fly in the room during a select council meeting, and the new foal that a prize mare had birthed. Thranduil chuckled to himself, going on about a story with his own trusty stallion and a carrot he once had in a pocket. He paused, waiting for a laugh from Irien. He turned around, frowning.

She had fallen asleep, head leaned up against the knotted trunk. Strangely enough, she looked much younger asleep, though that didn't count for much, in the lives of elves. Thranduil smiled and laid a cloak over her knees. He turned and leaned against another tree, continuing his vigil of the stars, reveling in the silence of the forest.

He wasn't entirely sure how long he spent merely sitting and thinking. But at one point in the night, Irien stirred and woke.

"You should have woken me up," she said when she finally came to.

Thranduil shrugged.

Irien shook her head disapprovingly. She followed his gaze up at the sky, then too turned her gaze up at the stars. "I could look at them forever," she said.

Thranduil smiled.

As if pulling herself away from dreams, Irien said matter-of-factly, "Well, I ought to head back inside. Meetings to prepare for and whatnot."

The two rose, the merry flames still crackling in the night.

"I cannot thank you enough for what you've done; how you've helped," Thranduil said as he turned to face Irien. Her bright blue eyes shone in the starlight.

"There is nothing to thank, my lord," Irien replied.

Thranduil shook his head. "No," he said finally.

She smiled.

So, hardly daring to breathe, he reached out a hand to take hers, running his thumb over the smooth mountains and valleys of her knuckles. Irien didn't let go, her smile growing. To Irien, it was like the first warm summer breeze, full of promises and adventures, laughs and that pure love of life. She brought an arm to his back, drawing him closer. Their eyes locked, piercing blue to a caramel brown.

"Together?" she whispered, barely louder than the rustle of the trees.

"How else?" Thranduil replied. He looked to the twinkling stars again, and thought he could see the smiling face of his father, up there in the sky. And finally, with a slight nod, Thranduil finally let Oropher go. A single tear rolled down his cheek as something released its cold grip around his soul. Irien reached up to trace the outline of his face with delicate fingers, brushing away his tears. The world slowly righted itself, and Thranduil Oropherion felt his heart grow, grow and grow.


End file.
